


Whole Thing's Far From Perfect

by necrosweater



Series: Little Sunshine [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 4
Genre: Aftermath of a Wild Night, Aspiring Tattoo Artist With a Heart of Gold, Drunk First Meeting, Emetophobia, F/M, First Meeting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Here there be vomiting heads up, Morning After, Pre-War, Running Into Each Other Trope, college kids, drunken debauchery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:23:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrosweater/pseuds/necrosweater
Summary: Mickey meets her future spouse after a wild night of college partying, and makes a spectacular first impression. Hey, I didn't say it was good or bad, just spectacular.





	

_Who the fuck is touching me?_

This is Michalina’s first thought. She cracks her crusty eyes open, peeling apart the layers of mascara that have melded onto one another and raises her eyebrows blearily. _Whose house is this? What’s that smell… oh God what’s the taste in my mouth?_ She spots an empty bottle and barely manages to propel her body upward enough to grab for it, before trying to quietly hawk a loogie into it.

 _Success._

Ignoring the slight tremor of her limbs that indicates an _incredibly_ lovely hangover is close on her heels, she rolls her neck and peers out from under the messy fringe of her hair, groaning lowly. She’s laying on a sofa with an unfamiliar print, and more importantly an unfamiliar mass of limbs tangled up at the opposite end. The room smells faintly of vomit, sweat, and an unplaceable scent that seems to be radiating from the socks hanging off the back of the sofa. Michalina gingerly picks her body from the pile of sleeping drunks and stands up. Wobbily. She looks around the room, unsurprised to find that she knows exactly none of the people passed out inside.

 _Next order of business… shoes._ They’re all the way at the other side of the room. _Ugh. Effort. So… much… effort._ She closes her eyes for a second, trying to decide if this is better or worse than watching the room bend around her. A moment later, she decides it’s worse, because when she closes her eyes, the black space spins twice as fast. _I really gotta quit with this,_ she thinks, groggily. There’s something on her face, and when she swipes at it, she can almost definitely determine it’s just drool and leftover lipstick from the night. Her mouth tastes like cheap beer and the ridiculous amounts of tequila shots she’d done… _what time is it even? Eight…_ a few hours ago. She hates tequila. She’s going to regret this, but at least she’s able to find a single piece of gum shoved into the inner pocket of her jacket.

Weaving around passed out strangers on the floor, she shakily makes her way to the shoe pile, fishing out her beat up canvas boots, and moaning as she tries to figure out how she’s going to get them back on her feet without falling over. 

“Need help?” She whips around at the voice, regretting it immediately as her stomach turns. There’s a rumpled looking man a few feet from the door looking at her. His facial expression says he’s mentally weighing the pros and cons of trying to get up. She’s pretty sure his pro column contains the possibility of getting her number, _unlikely_ , and the cons column includes… pretty much everything else. 

“No thanks, pal… no ‘ffense but you kina look like I don’t think y’d be able to make it ov’r here anyway?” She doesn’t want to tell him he looks like he’s more likely to puke in her boot than successfully help her get it on. She pulls her scarf out of one boot, her hat out of the other, and messily swaddles herself in the fabric before attempting to shove her feet in the boots. “’Preciate it though. Stay gold.”

Deciding her feet are as in the boots as they’re going to be, she ties one foot’s laces before abandoning the cause and stuffing the laces of the other in with her foot. _Good ‘nuff._ Bracing herself for a moment, Michalina opens the door and heads outside.

**\------**  


It’s one of those weird sunny mornings, where it’s bright as hell, but raining. The wind is whipping up little drafts of water drops that keep hitting her on the face. The cold rain doesn’t exactly feel good on her skin, but it’s probably (hopefully) taking a little of the smudged mascara (that she knows is probably all the way down her cheeks) off. She takes a moment to fumble around in the inner pocket where she’d found the gum, crying out a little victory cheer when she feels her sunglasses. Her heart sinks once she’s pulled them out. She’d slept in a weird position, and the wire frame has gotten bent out of shape. They still fit on her face, barely. It’s a Look.

Trying to perch them on her nose in a way that will look least stupid, Michalina shivers and looks around. _What street is this?_ Nothing familiar to be seen. How the hell did she get here? She makes her way to the intersection at the end of the block. Corner of Burns and Grove? Where the fuck is she? None of this sounds, in any way shape or form, even slightly familiar. Figuring she’s got nothing else to do this strange, blustery Sunday morning, she picks a direction and follows the street.

It’s only a few blocks before the suburban white picket fences turn to more urban scenery, and a bridge up the road brings her to a small downtown area that looks somewhat more familiar. Yes, there’s the 24-hour diner she’d applied at when she first moved to town, right next to the sketchy strip mall her ex had worked at. Finally having found her bearings… a little bit, Michalina takes a deep breath. The good news: she knows where she is. The bad news: she’s super far away from home, and a quick rifling through of her pockets shows that she’s got one more loose stick of gum, a corkscrew she’d probably stolen from the house she just left, a permanent marker, her trusty fingerless gloves, and a half empty pack of bent up cigarettes. Her heart tries to dig a hole in the ground as she realizes she’s not even got a quarter for the pay phone. 

At least she’d worn her combat boots, and not the heels she’d been considering. 

Sighing deeply, she keeps walking, fumbling with her gloves and figuring that she’ll maybe make it home by dinner. Her stomach somehow growls and turns at the same time as she passes the diner, picking up the smell of slightly stale fryer oil and spilled Nuka Cola. It’s hard to tell if it’s a good thing or not that she doesn’t have any money for breakfast. 

She’s sparking up a Grey Tortoise and mentally debating with herself so thoroughly that she’s not paying attention to her surroundings anymore, and still being more drunk than not, she doesn’t notice the door in front of her open. She also doesn’t notice the young man come walking out, or the fact that his arms are full of carefully organized papers. So distracted is she, that she doesn’t notice him until she runs right into him, both of them slipping on the icy sidewalk and getting knocked on their asses. Unsurprisingly, he’s the first to react, shifting from his fallen state to a more dignified position of kneeling on the ground, frantically trying to gather up his scattered papers. 

She might be drunk, but she can usually tell a looker when she sees one. And this man _most_ definitely falls into looker category. He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the formerly put together coif he’d been rocking. Michalina watches, entranced, as a few light strands fall into his somewhat angular face. The man glances up, and her eyes meet his, dark and tired. She immediately tries to reposition her broken glasses, a little too drunk to feel awfully silly. He smiles, weakly and straightens his stack of papers before tucking them under his arm.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he offers a hand. “I think your sunglasses were a casualty of the fall.” 

She’s just staring at him stupidly. _Say something, damnit! This man is a specimen, you have to at least say something! Open up your stupid drunk mouth, and use your words!_ “Um, no they uh… Oh my God.” She barely makes it to the storm grate in time before she empties her stomach into the sewer below. “Oh God…” Michalina swears upon her favorite leather jacket that she will never, _ever_ drink tequila as long as she lives. Her gum fell into the grate, and somehow that’s what her foggy mind finds most tragic about the situation. The one good thing is, her hair is pretty short, and mostly stuffed into her hat, so she’s definitely not getting anything nasty in there. _What a great first impression._ She stays with her face positioned above the storm grate for a few seconds longer, spitting to try and get the taste out of her mouth. She might be pretty drunk, but she’s not so annihilated to not be embarrassed about this. She just vomited in front of the cute guy. She’s about ready to crawl down the storm grate herself, and drown. 

“Hey, lady. Here.” She feels a hand lightly press against her shoulder, turns her head and sees the man has a water bottle in his hand, held out to her. She takes it, swishes some around in her mouth and spits it down the drain as well before sipping at the water carefully before fishing out the other piece of gum she’d found in her jacket. No sense having vomit breath if there’s an alternative. She’s suddenly hyperaware of how his eyes are darker than any she can remember seeing before. They’re like bottomless pits. Beautiful, sexy, compassionate bottomless voidy pits that don’t judge a drunk lady for puking in the street at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. “You okay? Sounds like someone had a rough night.” He chuckles a bit, offering her his hand again. She takes it this time.

“Th’nks.” She’s so embarrassed. “It was…kind of a crazy weekend.” She’s been clutching her broken glasses in her fist, they’re bent beyond repair now. She puts them on her face anyway. Too damn bright out here. “I’m not usu’ly like this.” _Oh, liar._ “Sorry I ran into you, ‘n made you drop all your stuff.” Her face is so warm, it’s probably the color of the Red Rocket sign, and just as visible from space. 

The man just laughs a little again. He’s still holding her hand. “Nathaniel Cochran. Most people just call me Natty. ” She stares at him through her busted shades for a few seconds before her drunken brain registers that he’s trying to exchange names. 

“Michalina. Zdunowski. I don’t uh, I don’t really have a shortened version of that.” She pumps his hand, awkwardly, somewhere in her brain remembering the protocol for an impressive handshake. “Nice t’meet you, Natty Cochran,” she says, proud of herself for only slightly slurring her words. _Take that, tequila._ “Hey uh, you don’t happen to have like, a quarter I could borrow for the phone, do you? Like you said, rough night, I’m on my way back to my apartment but it’s like… Far away. I need to call my roommate and get her to come pick me up, because there’s no way I’m making it that far.”

“Well, I don’t have a quarter, but I have a Corvega. Do you want a lift, Michelina Zdunowski?” A little thrill runs up her spine, both at the way he says her name, and the thought of getting into a car with this man she doesn’t know. “You should probably still call your roommate though, let her know a _strange man_ is going to be driving you home.” The voidy eyes sparkle with humor, and Michalina feels herself melting inside. _Oh, no._ She’s really falling for this guy, no pun intended. “I’ve got a connection inside, you can go in and ask to use the phone, tell them I sent you.” 

She turns around unsteadily, reading the letters in the frosted glass that read _Tangled Up In Blue Tattoo & Piercings_, and the sign taped to the door with _Now Taking Applications! Bring Your Portfolio and Inquire Inside!_ in elegant handwritten script. Her mind goes back to the papers flying everywhere, and she suddenly notices hints of some tattoos poking out from the sleeves of his jacket. It suddenly strikes her that Natty was probably either coming or going from a job interview, and she feels even worse for running into him. She ducks her head a bit, and opens the door, stumbling up the flight of stairs immediately inside. 

“Hey hey, little lady, store policy says you can’t get any ink if you’ve been drinking.” The man behind the counter is large, bald, and his dark skin is absolutely dripping in tats. If it weren’t for the smile playing around his mouth, or the friendly tone of his voice, she’d be intimidated. 

“Oh, sorry. I’m not here for a tattoo, I jus’ ran into some guy at your door, he told me I could use your phone?” 

“Natty?” The man’s mouth splits into a full-blown smile as she nods gingerly, trying to keep from rattling her still-not-sober brain. “Kid’s a real charmer, ain’t he? Just applied for a job. He’s a good kid, used to be a boxer for a while, joining the army. I’ll definitely be hiring him, but I gotta let him squirm a bit before I give the okay, right? Name’s Luther, I run this place. What’s the number you need to dial? I’ll put it in for you…” 

“Michalina.” She’s faster with catching on this time. “Thank you, sir.”

“Luther, please.” He patiently waits for her to rattle off the number, then hands her the receiver. 

The telephone rings for a long while before her roommate, Dolly, answers groggily. “’Lina? Where the hell are you, your first class started like, an hour ago?” _First class? What?_

“Dude, it’s Sunday. Chill. I’m getting a ride from some dude, just calling to make sure you know what happened to me if I go missing and they find my corpse floating in the river.” 

“Mick, it’s Monday.” _Shit._ “You went on a bender again, didn’t you.” She sighs, ever the straight-laced. “You sure you can trust this guy?” 

“Not sure, the boss at this fine body modification establishment seems to think he’s kosher.” Dolly makes a choked sound, and Michalina continues on quickly. “His names Nathaniel Cochran, tell that to the police if I don’t make it home. Tall, blonde, totally built. His eyes are like the midnight sky…” She makes a waving motion with her hand, like she’s tracing a rainbow. Luther snorts. “He’s got some amazing bone structure. The police sketch artist would love drawing his jawline. Anyway, we’re leaving from Tangled Up In Blue, it’s over by that diner, and that shitty strip mall, you know, where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned worked? Okay, see you soon. Love you, bye.” 

She hands Luther the receiver, thanks him for his time, and makes her way back down the stairs. Natty’s leaning against the hood of a beat up blue Corvega pickup, more rust than metal at this point, smoking. 

“I called my roommate. Gave her your name and description for the police if anything happens, so you better not try anything, mister.” She scuffs her boots against the icy sidewalk, and walks to the passenger side door. He quickly jumps to his feet and opens it for her, stubbing out his cigarette against the hood. 

“Golly, Miss Zdunowski, maybe I shouldn’t have worried about you making it home, you seem to know what you’re doing.”

**\------**

The ride is comfortable, the two of them exchanging banter that’s quite impressive for a drunken college student and an aspiring tattoo artist on a rainy Sunday-er.. Monday morning. She’s almost sad to see her apartment coming up a few blocks away.

When she goes to get out of the truck, she feels Natty’s hand on her shoulder again. She turns, and sees he’s offering her one more thing. A napkin, with his number on it. She flushes again, taking it quickly before stepping out of the pickup. 

“See you around, Natty,” she manages, smiling and turning around to walk up the steps to her apartment door. He waits for her to get to the door, truck engine rumbling noisily as it idles. 

Right before she slips inside, she hears him call out.

“Catch you later, Mickey.” 

_Mickey_ , she thinks. _I could get used to that._

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there it is. First time I've ever written fluff, romance, or anything of the like. Did you like Natty? Let me know, and I might throw some more pre-war stuff out here. 
> 
> The title and really, all the inspiration for their meeting comes from the song The Real Damage by Frank Turner. Check it out.


End file.
